Unbecoming
by Deadly Salami
Summary: Grace writes a letter to vent her feelings about her mother's problem (if you haven't seen The Cat don't even bother reading you wont get it). There's a bit of GraceLuke at the end. Please read! Reviewing is optional.
1. Chapter One

It's not an excuse. I never intended it to become one. It's a cause, really. More of a fact if you want to get right down to it…my mother drinks. It happens. Not every kid goes and pushes away every relationship they might have a chance of forming….not every kid becomes a rebel who refuses to accept anything spoon-fed to them…nope. It's just me. It's how I deal, so fuck off or come along for the ride—all I ask is that you sit down, shut up, and ask no questions.

I don't know how long she's been doing it. To me it's kind of like...the sky being blue. I don't pretend to know how long the sky has been blue. I don't pretend to care. All I know is that it's blue now, and it was probably blue before that, and it's probably not going to change in the near future. One of my earliest memories is reaching under the kitchen sink after disabling the child-protection lock (why do they even bother?) and finding all these bottles under there. At the time I could just make out the words…took me a while to sound them out, and after that I forgot about them for awhile…until of course one night while my father had some other rabbi over for dinner and I saw my mom reaching under the sink while everyone was in the living room laughing at some "A rabbi, a priest, and a nun walk into a bar" joke. Of course I march right up to them and (you'll have to picture this coming from a four year old) ask "Daddy, why do we have so much whiskey under the kitchen sink?"

Silence. I, of course, was carted off to my room. My father came up after the guests left soon afterwards and used his rabbi voice on me. It's the kind of voice that seems to yell while whispering, making you lean in closer and closer to hear what's going to come next. "Grace, you have to understand. There are some things that we just don't discuss in front of other people."

"Like a secret?"

"Exactly like a secret. People don't need to know all about our secret." And after that it became a game. Something I knew and no one else did…a way to entertain myself really. I could tell how close to my family some one was depending on how they looked at my mother. There were the casual acquaintances—respect and reverence, the gossips—pity, slight disgust, and partial disbeleif, the personal friends—remorse, and my fathers family—hatred. They couldn't understand why he stayed married to her. He felt, still feels, a sense of duty…obligation to the person he married. I wish I could feel like that about her.

I'm too used to coming home to whiskey breath and drawn shades, demeaning orders and glares of disapproval…she used to…to hit me. But she stopped…I think she's afraid of me now. Afraid of what she turned me into. All she sees is a threat to her social standing: the rebel daughter who wont wear dresses or go to her bat mitzvah classes or be seen and not heard like some sweet tempered lady. She can't admit that she influenced me…in an essence created me and my withdrawal from the world. No. It's me who's afraid. If I can't have a relationship with my mother, who can I trust?

It doesn't excuse me for what I've put you and other people through. It's pathetic…hiding behind this family secret so that no one can actually see what I am, or who I am, or who I could become. You're actually the first person I've ever told this too…all of it, I mean. Rove knows about my mother, obviously, and I don't know what he might have guessed, but that's it. I haven't said anything to anyone and you're the first person who I felt might actually care enough not to judge me…because, well if you put up with the leather jacket and the bitchy sarcasm and the will-she-wont-she game I've been playing since last year (you're cute when you squirm, did you know that?), then I figured you could handle about anything.

Well…I sure hope you can. I don't know if I'll ever find out. I don't know if I'll have the guts to actually mail this letter, to see the look on your face. If I do though…know that it's because I love you.

Stop smiling to yourself. It's unbecoming.

See you in Physics.

Oh, and don't sleep with this letter under your pillow or anything. That's just creepy.

Short? Yes. Good? I haven't the foggiest. Let me know please? It's be great to have feed-back so I can know to stop polluting the internet with my pathetic ramblings…let me know!


	2. Chapter Two

A note stuffed into a locker--

I love you too.

It's strange, finally saying that. I don't know if those words have ever come out of my mouth (or pen). With my family it's always one Joan crisis after a Kevin meltdown so it's too panicked to actually get the words out. They're just sort of there. The feelings of it are at least. You know you love your family, but they're such a part of who you are that you never stop to acknowledge your love of them. It just exists. Or does it? Sometimes by saying things or attempting to rationalize them you change the entire situation. It works like that on an atomic level at least, but I don't think it does with love. That wouldn't make sense. _Love_ doesn't make sense. Even if you know the science behind love, it can't keep you from feeling it and being consumed by it and becoming so distracted by it that you can't even be in the same room as the object of said affection without all motor and neurological functions ceasing to operate.

You're going to make fun of me for this letter. You're going to say something about the pathetic mushiness (that's not a word, is it? You've got me saying words that don't exist) of its content. And I don't care. It's sincere mushiness at least, and that's what counts.

A note flicked at the back of a head during Phsyics--

Sincere mushiness? No. **NoNoNo**. There will be no mushiness, sincerity notwithstanding. It's embarrassing. Not for me, for you. I don't do embarrassed. Well, I might make an exception if you start saying crap like that. How do you come up with that stuff without your brain turning to....I don't know…cotton candy? Crystallized sticky disgusting sweetness. It makes me want to retch. Try and think up something romantic to say about that, why don't you? Oh, and by the way—Thanks for bringing up your perfect family. That's a pleasant conversational topic. Let's bring up the one thing I don't have and dangle it in front of my face. You're down to three minutes…you'd better watch it.

A chat later that night--

GravityBoy: I didn't mean to make you feel bad, it was just an example of requited love in one of its multiple forms. Don't you think you can trust me about that? You're so paranoid sometimes.

BlackWidow4U: That's it. Two minutes.

GravityBoy: I meant paranoid in that adorable, endearing way.

BlackWidow4U: Don't think you're getting your minutes back that easy.

GravityBoy: Worth a try. And you didn't answer my question.

BlackWidow4U: Oh, go build a model of a sub-atomic particle.

GravityBoy: Fine. I will.

BlackWidow4U: You know what would really surprise me?

BlackWidow4U: Other than your sister acting normally and you not acting like such nerd

GravityBoy: I had no idea such paranormal phenomena existed.

BlackWidow4U: Coming home to find her sober.

GravityBoy: Oh…Grace,

BlackWidow4U: Dude, DON'T use my name. And let me finish.

BlackWidow4U: I've never actually known my mother. I've known a socialite and a drunkard, and sometimes a drunken socialite, but never the person who pushed me on swing sets and made me cookies and took cheesy home movies that embarrassed the hell out of me. I've never met that person. I don't think she exists.

BlackWidow4U: You don't know how lucky you are. Forgotten in your family is better than neglected in any family.

BlackWidow4U: And if you ever use the term 'sincere mushiness' again, there will be bloodshed.

BlackWidow4U has logged off.

GravityBoy: Sincere Mushiness.

Glad some of y'all liked the first part. What do you think about this one? Should I continue, or was it better off as a one-shot?


End file.
